Subliminal
by Sunnykisses
Summary: Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Takes place on the morning of September 11, 2001 and goes through Jon's whereabouts during the day and early the next morning. Please read Author's Note. Beta read by JewWitch.


**Author's note: I have been thinking of writing something like this for a while. Jon Stewart's post 9/11 speech touched me and I have a lot much respect for him and his family. I realize how deep a topic this might be to some people, so I didn't want to get anything wrong. I have posted the sources I got my information from, about the attacks and so forth. Concerning Jon Stewart, I have taken my liberties with who he was with, where he was, and what he was doing at the time of the attacks. In one of the sources, Jon states that he was home with his wife and actually heard the first plane crash into the North Tower. Again, I have taken some liberties as the author as to Jon Stewart and his wife and their whereabouts. I assure you this is all based on facts. **

**If you note, this will occur in 2001. During this time, Stephen Colbert and Steve Carrell were correspondents on _The Daily Show with Jon Stewart_, and they are mentioned, Stephen more prominently than Steve. They were known quite well for their recurring skit, _Even Stevphen_, also mentioned.**

**Beta: JewWitch**

* * *

September 10, 2001

_Daily Show _studios

Post-taping

9:00 p.m.

"_Here it is your Moment of Zen." The words still echoed in Jon's ears. The lights had dimmed; the audience was alive with applause. The doors to the outside world opened, and people began filing out. Jon sighed, content with the show that day, and stood up, stretching. When he turned around, someone was asking for an autograph, which he gladly signed. _

_Further away, Jon saw his wife of nearly one year, Tracey, walking towards him. Jon smiled, ambling over and kissing her on the lips quickly. _

"_I didn't know you were coming," he beamed, placing his arm around her. _

"_I thought I'd surprise you," she grabbed his hand. The two began to walk to his office, past double doors where only the crew could be. On their way, the couple passed fellow correspondent Stephen Colbert, who was talking with his wife, Evelyn. With one hand, he held his daughter, Madeline, while the other moved wildly while he spoke. _

_Stephen and Jon slapped high fives, before Jon was mauled by a very enthusiastic Steve Carell. Laughing, Jon patted the correspondent's back awkwardly._

_Finally, the two made their way into Jon's office. Tracey waited until Jon had changed into his regular clothes, placing his suit on a hanger and taking it with him. _

"_Ready?" She asked him. Jon smoothed out his suit, rumpled from Carell's attack. _

"_Yeah." He smiled at her. "You parked somewhere else?" Unlike what his New York instincts had told him, he had driven to the studio. The paparazzi were getting out of hand, and he wasn't one for posing for the cameras. _

"_Yep," Tracey pointed back to the audience parking, further away._

"_I'll drive you over," Jon suggested, opening the door for her to the cool, outside air._

September 11, 2001

Lower Manhattan

8:25 a.m.

Jon stepped out of the bathroom, dressed casually in a gray tee and athletic shorts, a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. He rubbed a hand along his freshly shaved cheek, letting out a sigh. Something seemed off about the day, and he certainly hoped that it wouldn't affect his performance on the _Daily Show_ that night.

One of his pets, a pit bull terrier named Shamsky brushed past him while his nose followed the scent of food. His other dog, Monkey, however, stayed by his side. In fact, he was in the tub, sleeping. Not wanting to scare him, Jon tip-toed away.

Last night, after driving back home, Jon had called Stephen and Steve. He had this great idea for another _Even Stevphen_ sketch that he was itching to share with them. He had stayed up until dawn writing it down. The paper now was a jumble of words, scratches, eraser marks, and a few coffee stains. Jon didn't like to bring his work home with him, but he couldn't resist this time. The two men would be coming over in a half hour.

"Jon," Tracey's sweet voice called from the kitchen of their loft. "Breakfast is ready." He quickly spit into the sink, wiping his mouth and heading towards the sounds and smells of good food.

"Thanks, honey, you didn't have to do that." He smiled at her, kissing her cheek as per 'good morning' ritual.

"Well, with the boys coming over, I figured I would just make them something instead of them eating everything in the pantry." She smiled, patting his hand. Jon laughed, spreading syrup on the plate of pancakes in front of him.

"Hope this doesn't make you late for work."

"No, no, it won't." Tracey slid into the seat opposite him. "I've got a surgery scheduled at nine thirty." Jon's wife was a veterinary technician at a local clinic.

"Oh, yeah? What's wrong?"

"German Shepherd, he's a police dog."

"Good man!" Jon smiled at her. She shook her head.

"Well, he was shot. I've got to remove the bullet."

"Please, Tracey, save the dog, he's a life saver, that one. We need more dogs like him in the world."

8:40 a.m.

Jon could no longer ignore the feeling in his gut. Something was _off._ He looked out the window at the calm New York morning. The view of his apartment was the World Trade Center; the towers making his heart swell with pride whenever he looked at them. They were a symbol of American pride, integrity and independence.

"Jon, hon," Tracey broke Jon's train of thought. "I'm heading off, see you after work." She set down Stanley, the cat who had been with Jon since he moved to New York.

"Okay, have fun." He smiled at her, taking another look at the Twin Towers before turning towards her.

"You guys be good," she smiled at him wittily before grabbing her purse and coat. When she opened the door, Stephen Colbert stood there, about ready to knock.

"Good morning, Stephen," Tracey greeted her husband's co-worker.

"Hi!" he replied. "Jon, I've got something to show you."

Tracey rolled her eyes and left.

"Hey, man," Jon greeted, the papers still in his hands. "I've got a sketch I wanted to run by you."

"Me too," Stephen held up a folder. "I wrote it after the show, and I was hoping we could do it tonight."

"Oh, yeah?" Jon motioned for Stephen to sit down. "What is it?"

"_Even Stevphen," _Stephen pulled it out.

"No way," Jon laughed. "So is mine. Man, we really need to get lives."

"Ha!" Stephen beamed. "We'll just see whose is better!"

"Challenge accepted!" Jon pointed a cunning finger at him. "Now, only if the other _Stevphen_ were here!"

"Oh, yeah," Stephen looked sheepish. "He just called, Annie's sick so he's staying with her while the wife's getting some medicine."

"Oh, that's too bad." Jon frowned. "I'll just have to pretend _I'm_ Steve Carell."

"Ha!" Stephen laughed, and he began to read the script. He looked up at the pancakes. Stephen fidgeted before grabbing some of the food Tracey had left. Jon wordlessly pushed a fork in his direction and smiled; Tracey had been right after all.

"Hey, man, do you feel really weird?" Jon suddenly looked up.

"If you are talking about the mysterious 'pudding' my son made me eat earlier, then, yes, I am feeling quite uncanny. I'm trying to counteract the taste with these pancakes."

"No," Jon laughed. "I mean, something feels…off. I don't know. It's probably nothing." He sighed, looking down at his watch, 8:45 a.m. "All right, hand me your script." He snatched the stapled packet from his friend. It wasn't nearly as marked up as his. It was quite clean actually, and typed.

"Oh, my favorite font, chicken scratch." Stephen muttered, looking at Jon's paper.

"Ah, but it's pure genius," Jon retorted with a witty grin. Stephen piped up a response, but Jon could suddenly not hear him anymore. The horrible, tugging feeling in his gut boiled over, his heart pounding faster with each passing second. The floor had begun to shake slightly, and after a quick prayer, Jon turned around, hoping it wasn't some kids playing with firearms or something absurd.

It was absurd all right.

A plane, much too close to the ground, had crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

Stephen cursed, jumping up. He ran to the window, where Jon's neighbors had already begun to file onto the street, squinting at the smoke rising from the building further away from them. Far away, but not far enough.

Jon joined him, his hand over his mouth while the other lay limply at his side.

"What the fuck is going on?" Stephen nearly growled, watching and hoping he would snap out of this dream soon. Except this was no dream, this was all real.

"T-turn on the news," Jon said, more to himself than to Stephen, who was still staring at the tower in a mixture of horror and fear that if he turned around, it would still be there, that this catastrophe wasn't a dream.

There was a little click and the television turned on, the images slowing appearing. CNN. NBC. Hell, Good Morning America. Fox—dear Lord, no, not Fox. Not one station knew yet. Not one was covering the story.

"No, no, no, no!" Jon exclaimed. "It's right outside! It's _right there!_ Somebody get down there!" He flipped back and forth between the channels.

"Well, it's a beautiful morning here in New York, isn't it?" A news reporter was asking a co-worker.

"Simply beautiful."

"_No,_ it's not! Not the New York I live in!" Jon angrily hit the remote and changed the channel. Finally, a news team was covering the hit, their voices stricken and panicked. Stephen shook his head, they sounded just like Jon. He'd never seen Jon Stewart this way. He couldn't figure out what unnerved him more, the screams, fire and smoke coming from the tower and all around Manhattan, or Jon's attitude.

Colbert looked over at the television, walking over to get a better view. A plane, flying into the North Tower.

"That doesn't look like an accident," Jon whispered, his face paling.

"What are you talking about?" Stephen frowned. "No, no, of course it was an accident. I mean, it's got to be. Come on, it's over now, Jon, it's done."

"No, no, I've got to find Tracey, I…"

"She's fine, Jon, I'm sure of it. She's a strong woman."

9:03 a.m.

When the second tower was hit, Jon ran to his door, practically knocking it down by pure force, which was surprising for the slim man.

"C'mon, dammnit!" His shaking hand couldn't get a grip on the door, and when he finally got it open, he was a burst of energy. He ran down the stairs, pushing open the next door.

The musty smell of smoke hit him first, before Stephen, who ran into him on his way out.

"Sorry," he whispered breathlessly, although he was hardly tired, more shell shocked than anything. But not like Stewart. Stephen lived in New Jersey, so although he knew this was terrible, he also knew he didn't feel like Jon did—this was Jon's home.

Some of Jon's neighbors were crying while others were trying to get closer to the towers. Jon was unsure of what to do with himself. He wanted to run over to the towers, help get people out, help New York, but he also knew whatever he did, Colbert would follow, and he couldn't afford to get him hurt on his behalf. He needed to stay, just in case Tracey came home, looking for him. He didn't want her to worry when she came home and he wasn't. Besides, he was growing sick with the thought that she was somewhere in the middle of all of the chaos going on.

Firemen were running down their street, talking to everyone who was out.

"Sirs, please go back inside. We need to keep you safe, and the only way to do that is for you to not be around the World Trade Center. Please go back to your homes. Everything is under control." A durable, young fireman informed Stewart and Colbert when he reached them. A thin layer of dust covered his ebony face and his uniform was dirty, debris crumbling off with each movement. He was breathing heavily.

Stephen nodded, thanking him.

"Were you in the tower?" Jon asked, finally looking up. The man almost smiled—he recognized the two celebrities, but it was hardly the time to acknowledge that.

"Yes, sir. South tower."

Jon nodded, his hands stuffed firmly in his pockets. "Thank you." He said with as much emotion as Stephen had ever heard him use. "Thank you so much. For helping them."

The fireman looked surprised. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you," Stephen Colbert smiled at him, leading Jon back into the apartment building.

"Wait, no, you go inside, I'm waiting." Jon pushed past him once the fireman had left.

"For what?" Stephen threw up his hands. "Both towers were hit."

"There are seven." Jon muttered.

"_That's_ what you're waiting for?"

"_No,_ I'm…I'm waiting for Tracey."

_Oh._ Stephen was sheepish. Of course, he should have remembered she was out. He suddenly had the urge to call his own wife.

"Jon, come on, we never looked at those sketches." He tried to lead his mentor inside again.

"What? No, no, I couldn't think about…I can't do a show today." Jon shook his head. "You can't just bounce back from this, Stephen; you can't just expect the crew to be in a good enough mood to want to make people _laugh._ Today is not a laughing day, Stephen, this is something…different. I'm not going to be the inconsiderate jerk that has a show this evening like nothing happened, like people aren't _dying-" _Jon choked up, to his great annoyance. "Sorry, sorry," he sniffed. Stephen looked like he wanted to comfort his friend, but Jon just walked past.

"I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm not leaving the apartment until Tracey gets back."

9:50 a.m.

"Evelyn?" Stephen stood in the Stewart's family room, nervously clutching the Stewart's home phone. "Evelyn, are you there?"

"Stephen," she was crying. "Oh, Stephen, I thought you were hurt."

"No, oh, no, honey, I'm fine. Really, not a scratch on me." He assured her gently. "D-do you know what happened?"

"Terrorists attacked us." Evelyn explained, her voice cracking.

"What?" The idea seemed foreign and unreal to Stephen, something that wouldn't happen in America. Not America. "What are you saying?"

"Planes were hijacked, the World Trade Center was hit, that's where you were. And the Pentagon was damaged."

"The _Pentagon?" _Stephen repeated in shock. Jon turned around from his post at the window to listen.

"Yes, and another plane crashed into a corn field, there were no survivors."

"Oh my gosh," Stephen sat down in shock. Jon was frowning in confusion. Stephen held up a finger, saying he would explain later. Jon listened to the rest of the conversation, only hearing Stephen's words.

"How are the kids? Okay, okay, no, that's fine. And you? I know, I know. I'll be back before dinner; I just want to stay with…yes, okay. I have to go, now. Sorry. I love you too. Bye." Stephen set the phone back down, placing his head in his hands and exhaling, long and slow.

"What is it?" Jon asked. Stephen looked up, sighing and walking towards him before telling the terrible news that his wife had just told him.

"There were, uh, four planes. They were hijacked by terrorists. Two went here-" He gestured towards the window. "-one went to the Pentagon, and one crashed before it could cause any damage and-" Stephen stopped, squinting at the window. Jon turned around as well to see a woman jumping from a lofty floor of the North Tower. Her screams were heard throughout Manhattan.

"They're _jumping?"_ Stephen exclaimed in utter terror, rushing over to get a closer view. Jon rummaged around his drawers until he found a pair of binoculars, taking them out and peering through them. Sure enough, World Trade Center employees were jumping off the edge, down numerous stories, to their deaths. Jon made a noise, and Stephen wasn't sure if it was fear or relief.

"At least now they might have a better chance of living, right?" Stephen tried. "They won't get burned."

"No," Jon said quietly, shaking his head. "No, they're just choosing a faster death." His voice was so sad, his mouth drooping and his eyes misty. Stephen let out a choked sound, grabbing the binoculars and watching two men jump, following them until he couldn't see them anymore. He prayed they would live. _Oh, please, let them live. _He begged, squeezing his eyes shut.

At the sound of keys turning the lock, both men jumped. Jon whispered his wife's name, perking up immediately. When the door opened, Tracey stood there, her eyes wide, and her hands empty. Jon ran to her, nearly picking her up. He hugged her as tight as she could. He was crying, now, he truly was. Tracey, teary herself, held onto him. She looked at Stephen, who looked he wished he could be with his family as well, like her coming home reminded him that his wife and kids were without a father and husband as well. She motioned for him to leave and he did, grabbing his coat and walking out, but not before placing his hand on Jon's back reassuringly.

Tracey shut the door with her foot, rubbing Jon's back. He pulled back, shaking. "I…I thought that-"

"Ssh," Tracey helped him over to the couch, where he slumped down, exhausted. Although it was still morning, it felt like it had been days since he last saw his wife. He hugged her again, his forehead resting on her shoulder. When he finally looked up at her, his hands found the sides of her face, and he kissed her, his tears staining her face.

"Jon," Tracey frowned. "Jon."

"Tracey," he sighed. "I watched them jump." His voice was scratchy from crying, his eyes red.

"What do you mean?"

"Employees," his breaths were labored. "From the Twin Towers were jumping so that they wouldn't get burned to death. You cannot _possibly_ jump eighty stories and live."

Tracey covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, Jon."

He placed an arm around her, and she settled close to him. Her brown hair fell forward into her face, and Jon wanted to pull it aside, but he was shaking so much he thought he'd end up hurting her—or himself. Slowly, he reached towards the remote, turning on the television.

"Jon, you don't have to look at this." She assured him. He shook his head, sighing sadly. He stroked her hand with his own and the two of them watched the news, as the reporters tried to find words to sum up all that had happened. Jon couldn't believe he was inside, safe and sound, when, not that far away from him, people were dying and burning. It was ridiculous, but he didn't want Tracey to worry when he played hero and got himself hurt.

"I didn't even make it to work," Tracey said after a while. Jon muted the depressing news so he could listen to her. "When the first tower was hit I was heading towards work. It felt like there was an earthquake or something. An older woman opened the door to her house and let me in, because she didn't want me to be alone." She laughed. "When she figured out you were my husband she got extremely excited. She just loves your show."

Jon pressed his lips to the top of her forehead, taking in the faint smell of grapefruit shampoo. He was too spent to remind her that it was not _his_ show in any way. His fingers toyed with the remote as he watched the flickering images of the falling towers again and again. Rewind, play, rewind, play. The news stations kept repeating the video, from the moment the plane hit to the time when people began to jump off. They zoomed in on a couple, gripping each other tightly before falling off the edge.

Minutes later, when the South Tower fell to ashes, Jon felt like he and Tracey were that couple. Falling off the edge into oblivion, into nothingness.

10: 25 a.m.

Jon had stood, solemnly staring out his window for what seemed like years. He watched everything. He soaked in all the sorrow as if it were his own. His eyelids were drooping; a thick haze seemed to be permanently clouding his vision. His body ached for some odd reason, and it bothered him. He didn't feel as if he had any room to begin to complain about or even comprehend aches and pains.

Tracey was shakily organizing Jon's endless pile of crosswords and books. He had a specific method to his insanity. One pile was for finished books, stacked horizontally. Above those books, shelved vertically, were the books Jon had to read for _The Daily Show. _In front of all the books were the daily crosswords he took out of the newspaper and saved until he had time to work them out at his office. Tracey would have her own copy, and the two would try to see who could get the most words. After taping, Jon would come home and the two would compare answers over dinner.

"I want to go down." Jon suddenly spoke, his soft manner capturing her attention instantly. She stood, not saying anything. "I want to go down…I want to help."

Tracey stared at her husband for a while, taking in his words evenly. Jon would be safe; she knew he would take care of himself. She just couldn't bear knowing that he was down there in all the destruction. Slowly, she nodded.

"Come with me," he suggested just as quietly, biting his lip out of nervous habit. "Please."

"Of course," she slipped on her jacket, pushing her long, brown hair out of the collar and taking his hand. "We'll get as close as we can."

Before the two could make it out the door, the phone rang. Jon pretended to ignore it, but Tracey steadied him with her free hand.

"It could be family," she reminded him. He hesitated, but nodded, giving in. Tracey went over to the home phone and picked it up, pressing it to her ear. "Hello? Mom!" Tracey breathed out. "We're fine, Mom, yes, yes, we know." Tracey gestured for her husband to go down without her. Jon looked surprised at first, but slipped out the door.

"Mr. Stewart, we're glad you're okay." His neighbor, an elderly man and his wife, greeted him as soon as the door had closed.

"What?"

"I said 'we're glad you're all right.'" The man repeated.

"Why?" Jon frowned, confused.

"Well, Mr. Stewart, without you, we wouldn't have anything to watch so late at night." The lady laughed.

Jon stared at them. He couldn't even begin to describe what he was feeling. He couldn't—wouldn't—throw all his anger at them, but their petty comments tried his nerves. He didn't care about his show, he didn't care about viewers, Comedy Central, he didn't care about anything at the moment.

"Excuse me," he all but pushed past the couple and out into the street. The North Tower was still visible, fire escaping through the many windows. Jon stumbled past spectators and tripped over rubble. He wasn't himself, this much he knew. He wasn't himself and Tracey was back in the apartment. Anything else he wasn't sure about.

The North Tower, in all of its beauty, was faltering. Each passing minute served as a test. Would the tower fall now? How about this minute? So far, the tower had stood its ground. Jon looked down at his watch. 10:27 a.m. He didn't understand why he kept checking the time. He was documented this tragic day, making himself remember every passing second.

Perhaps he feared of what was to come. The day he forgot an event like this was the day he died. This seemed so—

With a great lurch, a horrid, unmistakable rumbling, and sickening creak, the North Tower fell.

12:12 p.m.

One missed call. Two missed calls. Three missed calls. Four missed calls. Jon let the incessant ringing of his phone ring through his ears constantly. He wanted to see how long his will power would last.

"Hey, it's your father. How are you? Just wanted to know you were safe. Call me back. Bye."

He was home again, slumped in his kitchen chair, his chin propped on his hands, which were resting on the table. Tracey sat beside him, gently picking bits of debris off of his clothes and out of his thick hair.

"Trace, I've been watching the news all morning, I hope you're okay. If you need anything, call me back."

The Twin Towers were gone. They were two piles of ash. Jon watched them both fall, closer than he wanted to be. As soon as the North Tower fell, Jon was covered in dust and piles of rubble. He had gotten too close, he knew. He had just wanted to feel like he was helping his neighbors in some way. Those people in the buildings, the first responders, they were all his neighbors. They were dying.

"Jon, it's Larry. I just want to know how you and Tracey are doing, uh, please call back. Bye."

With a wet rag, Tracey gently wiped the dust off of Jon's face and arms. He didn't say a word, his eyes slipping shut. Tracey was mad at herself for staying behind and not going with Jon to see the North Tower one last time. She was talking to her mother when, suddenly, the sky was coated with ash. It was a horrible site, like a cloud had rolled in, and the storm was never going to end. Five painstakingly long minutes later, Jon appeared at the door, eyes wide.

"Jon, it's Mom. Please, honey, I need to know how you're doing. Larry said he called, but you haven't picked up. Jon, this-"

"Hi, Mom." Jon picked up the phone finally. "Mom, the Twin Towers are gone."

2:30 p.m.

Jon stepped into his office from the back door. Tracey was next to him, and Monkey trotted beside her. The cluttered mess on top of his desk used to be inviting to him, but the disarray unnerved him now.

There wasn't going to be a show tonight, Jon knew. That was a simple decision, anyhow. He would have to call his crew and correspondents, but he was sure that they already knew. Besides, if the show was to air, the crew would have had to be here by now, so they could start writing for the next show, and so on.

Sitting down at his desk, Jon pulled out a piece of paper and clicked his pen open. He began to write a letter, just in case anyone came. He would post it on the front door, perhaps, or maybe he would just lay it down on the secretary's desk. He was sure he secretary wasn't here. He hoped his secretary wasn't here. People should be home with their families, trying to find some sense of solitude. That's all Jon wanted.

5:21 p.m.

When Tower 7 fell, Jon watched from the same window he had watched the South Tower fall from. He could see the spot where he saw the North Tower collapse, the ground strewn with bits of the building and plane.

First Responders were moving faster, now, desperately trying to remove all the people and fellow New Yorkers from the remaining towers. They were doing the simplest of things, but it was so effective. People from around the World Trade Center were passing buckets of water around, anything that could help. At that moment, it didn't matter what you looked like, what you believed in, who you loved, nothing mattered except safety. It was touching and inspirational, the efforts these New Yorkers—his fellow people—were putting in to help. They didn't know all the details, they didn't know who or what caused such a tragic event to occur, but they sure as hell wanted to help.

So did Jon.

8:55 p.m.

When night blanketed the city of that unbelievable day, Jon sighed with relief. In the dark, the damage was hardly visible, the sky above him a blank slate. Every other tower was lit, the lights cascading down to Ground Zero, illuminating fragments of what once was.

Jon turned towards his wife, who was reading. She had been reading for hours, and Jon knew she was just trying to keep her mind off of what was outside. He didn't blame her, and wished he could join her, but wouldn't let himself forget, either.

Tracey put her book down and sighed. The two hadn't had a thing to eat since breakfast, and although that seemed like years ago, she still wasn't hungry. By the looks of Jon, he wasn't either. In fact, Jon just looked tired. He seemed to have aged throughout the events of the day. His eyes bore a different look, and when he looked at her, she knew that he was yearning inside. Yearning for hope.

"Let's go to sleep," she whispered, taking his hand. He nodded, quietly following behind her and into their room. He kissed her hand softly and looked at her again. There was that look again.

"Oh, Jon," she touched his cheek softly. "I love you."

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you, too."

September 12, 2001

4:30 a.m.

After an unwanted lick in the face by Monkey, Tracey awoke, moving the alert dog off the bed. She looked next to her, only to find that Jon wasn't there. In his place slept Stan, the cat. They really needed to find a new, animal-free place to sleep. Grabbing a robe, she headed into the family room.

Jon sat by the window, dressed in the same, gray tee he had been wearing that day and a pair of green striped boxers. He was petting and whispering soft, comforting words to Shamsky, who lay trembling in his lap. Tracey leaned against the wall, watching silently as the dog's whining quieted, and he settled down next to Jon, his soft head resting on Jon's thigh.

Jon rubbed Shamsky tenderly behind the ears, sighing. He and Tracey were big on animals, so when they found Shamsky they immediately took him as their own. He had been living in a small, cramped cage for a very long time, or a very short time, no one really knew. However, it was long enough that Shamsky became agoraphobic. And on a night after such a tragedy, Shamsky was having a panic attack. He knew something terrible had happened.

When Tracey sat down beside him, Jon looked up, smiling softly. Tracey reached over to pet Shamsky gently, her hand skimming across Jon's. He squeezed her hand. He felt that words were not necessary, like if he began to speak, he would begin to cry, or she would, or Shamsky would.

"You look tired." It was Tracey who broke the silence.

Jon scoffed, shaking his head. "I can't go to sleep. Not tonight." He traced his thumb along her wrist. "You don't have to stay up."

"Oh, but I will." She smiled softly. "We're going to be okay, Jon."

Jon nodded, pulling her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She hoped and prayed for better days to come. She didn't want to have to go through this again, or put Jon through this again.

"Babe," Jon suddenly said. "Look."

Outside, past the rubble and destruction of that day, a single statue emerged. From the rubble, Lady Liberty stood tall, a symbol of hope and security across the destroyed city. Jon looked out at the beautiful sight, before turning back to his wife.

"You know, we're going to be all right." He held her close. "I think we're going to be just fine."

* * *

"_Good evening and welcome to the Daily Show. We are back. This is our first show since the tragedy in New York City and there is really no other way to start the show then to ask you at home the question that we asked the audience here tonight and that we've asked everybody we know here in New York since September 11, and that is, "Are you okay?" And we pray that you are and that your family is._

_I'm sorry to do this to you. It's another entertainment show beginning with an overwrought speech of a shaken host—and television is nothing if not redundant. So I apologize for that. It's something that, unfortunately, we do for ourselves so that we can drain whatever abscess is in our hearts and move on to the business of making you laugh, which we haven't been able to do very effectively lately. Everyone has checked in already. I know we are late. I'm sure we are getting in just under the wire before the cast of Survivor offers their insight into what to do in these situations. They said to get back to work. There were no jobs open for a man in the fetal position under his desk crying…which I gladly would have taken. So I come back here and tonight's show is not, obviously, a regular show. We looked through the vault and found some clips that we think will make you smile, which is really what's necessary, I think, right about now._

_A lot of folks have asked me, "What are you going to do when you get back? What are you going to say? I mean, jeez, what a terrible thing to have to do." And you know, I don't see it as a burden at all. I see it as a privilege and everyone here does. The show in general we feel like is a privilege. Even the idea that we can sit in the back of the country and make wise cracks…which is really what we do. We sit in the back and throw spitballs—but never forgetting that it is a luxury in this country that allows us to do that. That is, a country that allows for open satire, and I know that sounds basic and it sounds like it goes without saying. But that's really what this whole situation is about. It's the difference between closed and open. The difference between free and…burdened. And we don't take that for granted here, by any stretch of the imagination. And out show has changed. I don't doubt that. And what is has become I don't know. 'Subliminal' is not a punch line anymore. Someday it will become that again, Lord willing, it will become that again, because it means that we have ridden out the storm._

_The main reason that I wanted to speak tonight is not to tell you what the show is going to be, not to tell you about all the incredibly brave people that are here in New York and in Washington and around the country, but we've had an unenduring pain, an unendurable pain and I just…I just wanted to tell you why I grieve—but why I don't despair. (choking back tears) I'm sorry… (chuckles slightly) luckily we can edit this…(beats lightly on his desk, collects himself)._

_One of my first memories was of Martin Luther King being shot. I was five and if you wonder if this feeling will pass… (choked up)…When I was five and he was shot, this is what I remember about it: I was in school in Trenton and they turned the lights off and we got to sit under our desks…and that was really cool. And they gave us cottage cheese, which was a cold lunch because there were riots, but we didn't know that. We just thought, "My God! We get to sit under our desks and eat cottage cheese!" And that's what I remember about it. And that was a tremendous test of this country's fabric and this country has had many tests before that and after that._

_The reason I don't despair is that…this attack happened. It's not a dream. But the aftermath of it, the recovery, is a dream realized. And that is Martin Luther King's dream. Whatever barriers we put up are gone. Even if it's just momentary. We are judging people by not the color of their skin, but the content of the character. (pause) You know, all this talk about "These guys are criminal masterminds. They got together and their extraordinary guile and their wit and their skill…" It's all a lie. Any fool can blow something up. Any fool can destroy. But to see these guys, these firefighters and these policemen and people from all over the country, literally with buckets, rebuilding…that's extraordinary. And that's why we have already won…they can't…it's light. It's democracy. They can't shut that down._

_They live in chaos. And chaos, it can't sustain itself—it never could. It's too easy and it's too unsatisfying._

_The view…from my apartment… (choking up) was the World Trade Center…Now it's gone. They attacked it. This symbol of…of American ingenuity and strength…and labor and imagination and commerce and it's gone. But you know what the view is now? The Statue of Liberty…the view from the south of Manhattan is the Statue of Liberty…you can't beat that…_

_So, we're going to take a break and I'm going to stop slobbering on myself and on the desk. We're going to get back to this. It's gonna be fun and funny and it's going to be the same as it was and I thank you. We'll be right back._

* * *

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